


Of Ships, Horses, and Trains or How Idioms can go wrong

by GoSherlocked



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Case Fic, Humour, Italy, M/M, Venice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-29
Updated: 2015-12-29
Packaged: 2018-05-10 04:46:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5571639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GoSherlocked/pseuds/GoSherlocked
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is about Venice. And about two idiots in love who do not find the right words. There are also films about Venice, cupcakes, canals, the Caffè Florian, a little case, lots of misunderstandings. And did I mention Venice?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Ships, Horses, and Trains or How Idioms can go wrong

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mrshouse](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=mrshouse).



> This was written for Secret Santa 2015 at BBC Sherlock Fan Forum. 
> 
>  
> 
> Dear mrshouse,  
> you wanted Venice, a trip to Italy or France, and a case fic. Now this is a bit short on the cases but instead you will get a little quiz at the end. And both your other wishes will be hopefully fulfilled.

It started on a Monday.

“What is this film even about?“ scoffed Sherlock and threw a balled sock at the television. “People behaving ridiculously and sleeping in the streets of a half-sunken Godforsaken city because they got lost after being invited by some creepy guy I would not have followed two metres in broad daylight, much less into his shady bar. And his father was obviously a sadist. I would not have expected ever to utter these words but can we please continue the Doctor Who marathon?"

 

The next evening Sherlock got even more exasperated.

“Come on, an old guy ogling a beautiful boy on a beach? And no police around to get him arrested? What kind of world is this? You mean then it was fine to ogle beautiful boys as long as you died afterwards? What a load of rubbish. Granted, the music is acceptable, but as for the rest … John, did we really give the Doctor Who set back to Molly?“

 

On Wednesday Sherlock exploded.

“No, John, this is not thrilling or exciting or scary or whatever you want to call this silly story. They are both clearly wrecked with guilt because they did not save the little girl from drowning. So they go on holiday to a seemingly romantic place that is full of old blind women and disgusting dwarfs dressed up as Little Red Riding Hood wielding knives? Really, John??"

 

On Thursday, just when Sherlock thought it could not get any worse, he was proven wrong.

“John, so now you are offering me an unmarried middle-aged woman who is obviously still a virgin ogling an attractive but clearly married Italian at least a decade younger than herself? Come on, one cigarette to get me through this ordeal. I put on three patches already and I am still getting depressed. I can tell you what will happen without watching the film plodding along to its inevitable, exhausting end. She will sleep with him and then leave him because she knows he is married and she is proud and does not want to be his woman on the side. Fine. And now let’s watch the Great British Bake Off so I can annoy Mycroft."

 

“Is this an experiment, or what?“ Sherlock demanded over breakfast on Friday morning. “How long does it take to drive a consulting detective round the bend and let his mind palace crumble to dust? Is this a new form of the Chinese water torture? Dripping crappy films about a crumbling city, people for some reason seem to find romantic, on the head on your long-suffering flatmate?"

John silently ate his beans on toast, mopped up the tomato sauce with the rest of the bread, drank his tea, and put the dishes into the sink. He felt Sherlock’s inquiring look on his back but refused to turn around. If necessary, he could be as stubborn as Sherlock.

“Well.“ Sherlock cleared his throat, sounding strangely shy. “I see. I am sorry, John, I truly am.“

Now John was baffled. Apologies were quite a rare thing with Sherlock, and after John had repeatedly assured him that it was not necessary to beg forgiveness for faking his death and disappearing for two years over and over again, his friend had returned to his more familiar manner of making excuses by brewing tea or buying nice food instead of expressing his regret in words.

But then Sherlock had been quite gruff this morning, and John would not look a gift horse in the mouth.

So he just said: “Thank you, but it’s fine, it really is.“

Which earned him a slightly confused look he chose to ignore.

 

“George, do you have a moment?“

Lestrade sighed heavily, and looked Sherlock up and down. “How long? Seven years? Eight? Longer? And you still don’t know my name?“

“Does it really matter? This is a case of national urgency!“

Suddenly Lestrade remembered that day one and a half years ago when he had left in a hurry the run-up to one of his biggest professional scoops, and had moved heaven and hell to get the joint police forces including a helicopter to Baker Street only to find Sherlock desperately worrying over his best man speech.

“Fine. So tell me what you are up to.“

Sherlock vehemently shook his head, sending his curls flying. “Not me, G … Greg, not me. This is about John. It’s him I’m worried about.“

“Oh.“ He knew John meant a lot to Sherlock but this was the first time he was so open about it. Usually these two would have bitten off their tongues before uttering something emotional. “What’s the matter with John? Is he ill?“

“No, he’s fine. This is he would be fine if he did not keep watching those films.“

This is where Lestrade became really, really curious. “What … films, Sherlock?“ God, the poor guy, he thought, having to cope with Sherlock’s death and return, then with Sherlock getting shot and John moving back to look after him while he was on the mend, then with Mary’s sudden disappearance some months after Christmas. He had always suspected more than a failed marriage but neither Sherlock nor John had ever spoken about it. And now John, the poor sex-starved bastard, was watching … films.

“Well, stuff.“ Sherlock emphasised his words with a fluttering gesture of his hand. “And he forces me to watch them together with him.“

Lestrade faked a violent cough which had Sherlock thumping on his back and asking if he had taken up smoking again and needed patches or a glass of water.

“No“, he gasped, “thank you. I’m fine. Just a bit dusty in here. So you were talking about the films …“

“Yes. He forces me to watch them with him and this morning I got a bit fed up with it. Four evenings in a row, this is getting slightly obsessive. I was a bit not nice about it and then I suddenly realised he did the same with Mary.“

“Stop it, Sherlock, stop it.“ Lestrade opened the door of an empty office and shoved Sherlock inside before closing the door behind him. “I’m an open-minded man, I really am, but still I do not want to hear anything of what Mary and John or you and John are doing in front of the television. This is getting a bit too kinky for me.“

 

John put the box of cupcakes on the counter.

“Not my birthday, but thank you anyway.“ Molly opened the lid and chose a toffee-vanilla flavoured cake with a chocolate coffee bean on top. She took a bite, chewed, said „delicious“ and then looked at him inquiringly.

“You are bringing me cupcakes just like that? Come on, John, spit it out."

He told Molly what had happened and her eyes grew wider with every word she heard.

“No, John, please tell me you did not show him all these films! Poor Sherlock, he must have been weirded out."

“But you don’t understand, Molly …"

“Oh, yes, I do. First you got him into crap telly, next it was Doctor Who. And now you force him to watch morbid films about a decaying city, full of dying composers, murdered children, and unhappy spinsters. Come on, give the poor man a break."

“Nonono, stop and listen. True, he shouted at the television and told me how unbearably stupid these films were. But the strangest thing of all happened on the morning after we watched the last film."

“What?“ she asked breathlessly, wiping some crumbs from her mouth.

“He apologised."

“He did what?"

“He said he was truly sorry. Out of the blue. After ranting about the films which he compared to a new form of torture. He suddenly got very still and then he apologised."

Molly bit her lip and then her face lit up. “I know what happened, John! It was just a misunderstanding. Look, if I’m not mistaken all these films have one thing in common. They are all set in Venice."

“Yes, so what?"

“Venice, the city you visited on your honeymoon with Mary.“ Now it was Molly’s turn to blush.

“Oh, fuck.“ It came out as a moan. John slapped his hand against his forehead.

She smiled wistfully. “John, you remember the Christmas party when Sherlock got so angry because you wanted to visit your sister instead of spending the holidays with him and he deduced my present and said all those bad things? And only then he grasped that the present was for him and he apologised with a kiss? I guess this is exactly the same thing. Just without the kiss.“

Molly stopped talking because she realised she was alone in the lab. That is, she and a box full of cupcakes.

 

Sherlock hated this. He hated being indebted to Mycroft which is why he had postponed the request for two days. But it was no use, he had to bring himself to write the words even if it killed him.

Want to call in a favour. SH

I cannot remember owing you one.

I am desperate. SH

Tell me something new.

Please. SH

That bad?

Yes. SH

Let me hear and I will consider it very carefully.

I need to go to Venice. SH

There are these things called aeroplanes. Or boats.

I need a case in Venice. SH

A case? And you think I could conjure one up for you?

Yes. SH

And what do I get in return?

A cake of your choice. SH

Mycroft? SH

Are you still there? Fine, I will take one of your cases afterwards. SH

Let me think.

 

John had not slept well for some days. Since the day Sherlock had apologised if he was honest with himself. He felt like an idiot for trying. Showing him films about Venice, what a stupid idea, what a sorry excuse for a brain did he have in his head! Subtle approach, my ass!

Although, to be fair, Sherlock had not been his usual brilliant self to misunderstand him so completely. Did he really think John was showing him those films because all of a sudden he had gotten soppy about his honeymoon with a woman he should not have married in the first place? John remembered Sherlock ranting about the films, and then - unexpectedly - his quiet apology. He realised he preferred a scoffing, sarcastic Sherlock over an apologetic one anytime and he did not care a bit what this might reveal about himself.

What now? He had chosen those films with care, all of them very different, to draw Sherlock out, to make him curious. John was not good with words, especially not where emotions were concerned. If he had, maybe his life would have been different, most of all the last five years.

He remembered sitting in Ella’s consulting room, unable to express how he felt about losing Sherlock. Even alone at the grave he had struggled to find the right words. And in the tube carriage, expecting to die with Sherlock, he had only managed to gasp out some completely insufficient words. And then there was that intense moment in the hallway before meeting the press. All he had wanted to say was “I'm glad you’re back. I missed you.“ And again his mouth had refused to form the words.

So much had happened since then and not once had John found the courage to tell Sherlock how he truly felt. The funny thing was that Sherlock who had always been so distant, who thought caring was a weakness, who treasured his intellect above all other things, had been the one to strip himself naked in front of a whole wedding party, laying bare his emotions as he had never done before.

And John had been sitting there thinking “Oh, shit, Sherlock, why the fuck now?“

As in:

\- now that this ship has sailed.

\- now that the train has left the station.

\- now that the horse has bolted.

He could not think of any more idioms and the basic message was clear: You had your chances and did not grab them.

And now Sherlock thought he was mourning after Mary and that he wanted to relive the good old honeymoon times on cloud nine - not that there had been a cloud nine honeymoon, the dreams had started after two days in Venice and there had not been a single day at their home in the suburbs that had been half as funny or exciting as the most boring Sunday in Baker Street … anyway.

How could two people love each other so much (well, John did, and by now he thought Sherlock might feel something akin to love for him as well) and yet so fundamentally misunderstand each other? Constantly? About the things that mattered most?

John let his head sink on the desk and buried his fingers in his hair. That is, until the new receptionist - tall, skinny, ginger, not an assassin - told him that Mr Birdwhistle had arrived for his flu jab.

The word “bird“ amused him against his will since he remembered himself pulling the beard of a poor old man who had just wanted to sell him some honest porn.

 

“Oh, it’s Christmas“, cried Sherlock.

“Not really, darling“, said Mrs Hudson. “Your irregular diet seems to mess up your brain. I read an article at the hairdresser’s about the connection between the intake of certain vitamins and the human memory …“

Sherlock ran into his bedroom and pulled the suitcase from behind the wardrobe. He opened the doors and started throwing in things.

“What in God’s name are you doing, dear?“ Mrs Hudson had finished her medical lecture and looked from him to the suitcase and back. “Holiday or a case?“

“Both, Mrs Hudson, that’s the beauty of it. By the way, how is the weather in Venice at this time of year?“

Her face became radiant. “Oh, my dear boy, it finally has happened.“

“What are you talking about?“

“Come on, Sherlock, you are going to Venice, the most romantic city in the world. This is where couples go, people who are in love, people on their … oh.“

“Oh indeed, Mrs Hudson. And now please pull up the weather forecast and tell me if I have to pack a T-shirt.“ He pronounced the word as if it was a growth of mould on his toast. “Not that I have one.“

“Nice and warm, darling, twenty-five degrees Celsius and sunny“, she called from the living-room.

And then, after a flash of inspiration, he started digging in the back of his wardrobe until he found a T-shirt that had sneaked its way into the tumble-dryer and had never been the same. He had only kept it on the off chance that one day he might be required to pose as a … anyway. He held it up. Nice colour, the same as one of his favourite shirts. And the material was elastic, no problem there. And so it went into the suitcase.

 

“A case? In Italy?“ John raised his arms and turned around in the living-room where Sherlock was waiting impatiently, suitcase at his side.

“Yes, do keep up, John. Our plane is leaving in two hours time so you should start packing.“ He clapped his hands in a gesture of encouragement. “It just popped up out of the blue. The man we are looking for is an author of travel books and is suspected of having married six women in different countries, using them as a source for first-hand insider’s tips and then cheating them out of their money before disappearing from the face of the Earth. He is English and based in Birmingham. Fluent in six languages, elementary knowledge in further nine. This is what we know.“

“But if he writes books people know his name. Why should it be so difficult to find him if you know the name and the town in which he is living?“

“Come on, John, up you go. Shall I help you packing?“

“Not really. But you can update me on the case.“

Sherlock relented and followed John upstairs to his room. “Have you ever heard of Travelonymous?“

John started to fill his suitcase methodically with rolled-up socks, folded T-shirts, a pair of jeans, pathetically self-ironed shirts and a baseball cap.

“No cap!“

“But the sun …?“

“You have been to Afghanistan, John. I suppose you will survive Venice in May without wearing a basecall cap.“ He sounded deeply offended. “I can’t be seen running around with a tourist.“

John threw the cap back into the wardrobe, stuffed a pair of trainers into the suitcase, raising his hand to Sherlock. “Not another word, I will take them, full stop.“

“Fine. As long as you don’t wear the cap. So, have you heard about Travelonymous?“

“Hm, those travel guides. I had one about Greece once … ah, now I see. An anonymous travel author. Clever.“ He closed the suitcase. “So let’s get a cab.“

Only when they went to the check-in desk and Sherlock produced the tickets and the lady behind the desk said “Two passengers to Venice, 1st class, two pieces of luggage“, John realised where they were going.

 

Sherlock had chosen the hotel with care: housed in a 16th century palazzo, only twelve rooms, with a lovely view of the canals and the church of Santa Maria della Salute. Only some minutes by boat to the San Marco pier. The interior cosy but without kitsch. And, even more important, it was as far as possible from the hotel in which John and Mary had spent their honeymoon.

It had been obvious that John wanted to re-visit the city but it would have felt awkward for them to stay in the same place where he and Mary had had their … sex holiday.

Sherlock did not like to think of those two weeks. God, he had been jealous! He had crouched in his chair and snapped at Mycroft when he dared bring up the subject of the “newly-weds“ so when Lady Smallwood turned to him he had grabbed the opportunity with both hands. A case to make him forget what the Watsons were doing and if he was able to spend some time in a drug den, all the better.

Well, this was over now. The receptionist watched them entering their names in the hotel register. “We are sorry, signor, double rooms are nicest, but you said …"

“Yes, I said we wish to book two single rooms."

The receptionist spread his hands apologetically. “There is very pretty room with balcony, overlooking the canal, and bed is really wide … so if you want, we can give you special price …"

Sherlock stared icily down at the man who was about a head smaller than himself. “We are here on a business trip. This is my assistant. We do not require a romantic view of the canal."

“Fine. Single rooms are nice as well. Not as nice as double but nice enough."

“Thank you."

Sherlock grabbed the keys and dragged John after him toward the stairs.

“Did you just call me your assistant?"

Sherlock sighed. “John, would you have preferred to stand there even longer and listen to his insinuations about double beds? You have always made it very clear that you are not gay and don’t want to share a bed with me."

After that John remained strangely silent.

 

“So, this Travelonymous. How are we going to look for him?"

They were sitting in front of the magnificent Caffè Florian on Piazza San Marco drinking coffee that judging from the price was made of roasted gold nuggets.

“John, please. Can’t we just enjoy the atmosphere for a moment? I’ve never been to Venice before and it’s quite nice. That is apart from the tourists and the pigeons and the singing gondolieri."

“You have never been here before?“ John asked incredulously.

“No, I haven’t. Why should I? I never had a case in Venice.“

John put his cup down on the saucer and signalled the waiter for two more coffees. “I hope this is okay with you. Expenses and all that."

“Of course, it’s fine.“

But John was not finished yet. “You never had a case here. But there are other reasons for going to Venice."

“I know“, Sherlock said. “Romance."

“Exactly.“

“You are the living proof, aren’t you?“

It crumpled. There was no better word to describe what happened to John’s face.

Oh, shit. Foot in the mouth, once again. Sherlock cursed himself.

“I … I just wanted to say …"

“I know what you wanted to say."

“So …"

“Please, Sherlock, just one thing: no word about my honeymoon. Not ever. Are we clear on that?"

Sherlock gulped and nodded. “Yes."

They continued to drink coffee, and Sherlock amused John with stories about famous murders committed in the city, and John answered with some interesting anecdotes about Casanova and his time in the infamous piombi in the Doge’s Palace.

And not once did Sherlock mention the case.

 

The next day they set out to have a look at the house of Mrs Laura Bianchi, the rich ex-wife of a Roman property mogul who had bought a beautiful palazzo near the Rialto bridge. The house in the calle del Paradiso seemed a bit understated but Sherlock told John that behind the inconspicuous exterior the rooms were exquisitely furnished with antiques and the finest tapestries in Venice.

“Do you think he’s in there?“ John asked when they had casually passed by the house.

“I have no idea but we will find out. Tonight, to be exact.“

“Not another break-in. The last time you got carted off in an ambulance and nearly died on me.“ He must have spoken with more passion than intended because Sherlock shot him a surprised glance.

“You don’t forget anything, do you?“ said Sherlock quietly.

John realised they were completely alone in the narrow street which was quite unusual in a city crammed with tourists.

“How could I forget that? Sorry, but I do not have a hard drive on which I can store and delete things at pleasure.“

Sherlock looked away. “Neither have I.“

John stopped in his tracks. “But you told me you delete things you do not need and …“

“Exactly.“ Sherlock turned towards him, a strange look in his eyes. “I delete things I do not need.“

John stood rooted in the spot while Sherlock was walking away. Something was off since they had got here. He remembered when in the Caffè Florian Sherlock had mentioned romance, being his old distant and cool self. Romance, but not for me, was the implication. And John had felt rejected, which was ridiculous, but he could not shake off the feeling.

But this - not wanting to delete things he needed. It was not the words, those were quite typical of Sherlock, it was the way he had spoken them. As if he was not talking about accumulated random knowledge that might come in handy one day but about something else.

“John, are you coming! We need to rent dinner suits and get dressed for tonight.“

 

“Did I miss something on the way, Sherlock?“ John asked when they walked through the hallway.

Sherlock opened the door to his room with a flourish and pointed to the bed on which two black dinner suits complete with white dress shirts and black ties had been carefully deposited. On the floor two pairs of shiny black shoes were waiting.

Before John could say anything, Sherlock produced two gilt-edged invitation cards for Mr Sherlock Holmes and Dr John H Watson - Sinful swing nights in Venice - RSVP. Host: Mrs Laura Bianchi, Palazzo Minuti, Calle del Paradiso, Venezia.

“Where on earth did you get this?"

“With a little help from the British government."

“Oh, no, Sherlock! You are not going to solve another dominatrix case for him or one which lands us in a mouldy swimming-pool with a criminal megalomaniac who wants to get into your pants!"

Sherlock observed how John’s face suddenly turned red. He looked at the floor, hand flexing awkwardly. His adam’s apple moved when he gulped.

“As you know, I usually don’t wear any pants when attending palaces."

John’s grateful laugh, full of relief, was the best thing that had happened so far in this city which he still could not find romantic.

 

It was more than impressive. Sconces in the walls holding flickering torches, the smell of oriental perfumes filling the air, swing music with a classical touch in the background, loud enough to dance but not too loud to prevent intimate conversations.

The room seemed like a meadow of black dinner suits dotted with flowers in the form of shimmering evening gowns in all colours of the rainbow. The waiters were wearing powdered wigs, brocade coats and knee breeches and served champagne in glasses that alone must have cost a fortune.

Sherlock, glass in hand, kept looking around, probably searching for the elusive Travelonymous. John, glass in hand, kept looking at Sherlock.

Apart from that fateful dinner at the Landmark restaurant which he preferred to bury in the deepest recesses of his mind and the occasion of his own wedding (well, put that on the best-forgotten-list as well) John had never seen Sherlock in evening dress.

And this was definitely the first time he could appreciate the view, not being angry as fuck and trying to throttle Sherlock or being nervous as hell and fighting against a subliminal feeling of “Shit, that door has closed now“.

God, did he look good! The suit looked tailor-made on him, cool, understated, just on the right side of tight-fitting.

“John! What the hell are you staring at! Run!“ And then he was dragged away, through a door, along a hallway full of flickering shadows, their feet sounding hollowly on the marble tiles, over a balcony to the neighbouring roof, “Jump, John, your legs are long enough!“, down another flight of stares. No torches here, the house seemed cold and empty.

Then a shuffle before him in the dark, panting, Sherlock’s deep voice saying something like „Got you“, then a cry of pain. John dashed past him, hopefully not trampling Sherlock in the attempt, and threw himself blindly at the man before him. He could not see anything, playing by ear, jumping on his back and wrestling him to the floor.

Then suddenly he heard a click, and light flooded the hallway. Sherlock was standing there, a gash on his temple, blood running over his right cheek, but his face proud and triumphant. “Brilliant job, John. And you, Mr Blaine aka Travelonymous, have made the oldest mistake in the world."

The man could not answer since John was sitting on his back, pushing his face into the floor.

“Giving yourself away by running.“

Mr Blaine’s face was very red by now, a fact that both Sherlock and John completely ignored.

“You did not even wait until we were introduced to Mrs Bianchi. You could have used the opportunity to leave the house undetected. Not for long, though, since the authorities would have caught you soon as all the bridges and ports are under observation …"

“Sherlock, you are hurt.“ John got off Mr Blaine’s back who desperately struggled to force some air into his lungs.

John took a tissue out of his pocket and pressed it against Sherlock’s temple. Then he put his lips to Sherlock’s ear and hissed: “Why the fuck did we have to come here for that?“ He nodded towards Mr Blaine. “You could have solved this case lying in your bathtub. Or in your sleep. This is ridiculous. No more than a 0.5 on your scale."

Sherlock looked down, clearly embarrassed. “Because it was Venice."

 

A sticking plaster was enough, no stitches required. Mr Blaine had been taken away by the police and Sherlock had explained to Mrs Bianchi the danger she had been in. After some furious shouting, accompanied by some highly imaginative Italian swearwords, she was reduced to tears and issued an impressive cheque.

“To think that I nearly gave him the address of Luigi Betti’s secret dining place. Best food in Venice, four tables in a private apartment where Casanova once lived. Mr Holmes, Dr Watson, you saved both my money and my reputation. How can I express my gratitude?"

“Apart from the cheque? Well, if you could pull a few strings with Maldini’s evening wear rental …“ said John looking from himself to Sherlock. Their dinner suits definitely were worse for wear.

“No problem, signori, I will take care of that. You will not hear a word from Maldini.“

And then they suddenly stood in the street that was dark and deserted, Sherlock with blood on his white dress shirt, John in a dirty dinner suit.

“What now? Bit of an anti-climax, if you ask me.“

“Well, it was far better than a candlelight cruise in a gondola“, said John.

Sherlock stopped abruptly. “Are you serious?“

“Of course I’m serious.“

“But … I thought you were a romantic. I said so at your wedding and you did not disagree.“

John laughed. “How could I disagree with my best man during his speech?“ He dug his hands into his pockets and walked on, slowly, head thoughtfully bent. “I never told you but it was beautiful. The speech, you know. The beginning was … um … very much you, but then … all the things you said. I never really thanked you for that and I’d like to do that now.“

Suddenly they were facing each other and John squeezed Sherlock’s upper arm. It was a sort of manly gesture, something mates did, but then it was not. Because John never touched him like that.

“It’s fine. It’s what best men do.“

John raised his free hand. “No, Sherlock, listen, this is not what best men do. It never was. It was so much more and especially from you. Thank you.“

Sherlock felt something snap in him and looked away. “Happy to be of service.“ And with that he turned around and walked away.

 

John looked after him, completely taken aback. And then it struck him. Fuck, not again. He was such an idiot where Sherlock was concerned. Before he could make up his mind, Sherlock’s steps had died away amongst the old, damp walls that had seen centuries of heartbreak.

Oh, yes, he was a romantic in theory but as soon as it came to Sherlock, he behaved like a bull in a China shop. Sure, Sherlock had brought up the subject of the wedding but why go on about it? Why make Sherlock believe that the wedding was something John liked to remember? And why the whole silly, unforgiveable go-back-to-Venice-to-cast-out-the-demons-stuff?

By know he knew that Sherlock indeed felt things even if he did not put them into words. And that was the pot calling the kettle black because he himself was not any better at it. Thinking of the speech again, he had to admit that he actually was much worse than Sherlock.

He started walking, not sure where he had to go but soon the streets got livelier and he looked for signs that could lead him back to the hotel. He found his way to the Piazza San Marco with the brightly-lit Caffè Florian and from there to the Ponte Accademia and their hotel.

Sherlock was nowhere to be seen. John went to the reception, got his key and asked casually if Mr Holmes had returned.

“Yes, signor, he came back some minutes ago and went up to his room.“

“Thank you.“

John took his time, not sure about what to do next. He could not bear the thought of going to sleep with this - whatever it was - standing between them. The whole Venice thing had been a mistake, John’s clumsy attempt at showing Sherlock what he felt and what he was unable to express with words.

He stood in the dimly lit hallway in front of his room, key in hand. He looked to the right. Made some steps in that direction. Sherlock was behind that door, doing whatever he did when he was - sad? pissed off? hurt?

And then, before he could start hesitating and pondering and retreating, John knocked on the door.

 

Yes, it had been wrong to come Venice, to try and give John what he wanted. He had thought he could bear it after he had born the wedding and all that came afterwards but now he realised that there were things even a high-functioning sociopath could not bear.

Sherlock realised he was still wearing the bloody shirt. He took it off, balled it and threw it into a corner. He might have taken it as a souvenir, no need for that now.

Looking into his suitcase he found that there was no clean shirt left. Just the purple t-shirt that had taken too many rounds in the tumble-dryer. He pulled it over his head. Bit tight around the chest, bit too short further down, but it would be sufficient to sleep in. Maybe the hotel could send someone to buy him a shirt before they went to the airport in the morning.

He heard steps in the hallway. Someone slowly approaching, stopping in front of the door to his right. John.

The steps moved over to his door. Paused.

He remembered his own words. Oscillation on the pavement always means there’s a love affair. How dismissive he had been then, how superior. By now he knew he was not infallible, not where John was concerned.

Then there was a knock at the door.

 

John gasped when Sherlock opened the door, wearing his black dinner suit trousers and a very tight-fitting purple t-shirt John had never seen on him before. It made him look ten years younger and John suddenly felt very awkward.

“John, good to see you. Glad you found your way back. I was just packing but there was no shirt left, so we will have to do some shopping tomorrow before going to the airport …“

“Sherlock, you are babbling.“

John gently shoved him into the room and closed the door behind them.

Sherlock blinked and raked a hand through his hair. “Yes.“ That was all he said.

John cleared his throat. “I have to tell you something. I know you love interrupting me but please let me finish this one time because I’ll never find the courage to start again.“

Sherlock nodded.

“I wanted to come to Venice, this much is true. And I wanted to come to Venice because I came here on my honeymoon. No, Sherlock, stop it, you promised. But it was not to walk down memory lane, it was to - and this may sound silly to you - to exchange my memories for something better. I wanted to be able to think of Venice without being reminded of a marriage that never really was and you nearly dying and leaving forever and … all that.“ He pressed his lips together, gathering courage for the last difficult hurdle. “I wanted to come here with you.“

Sherlock stared at him incredulously and John felt himself reminded of that day in the kitchen in 221B when he had told Sherlock he was his best friend.

“So what do you say?“

Sherlock bit his lip. “Am I allowed to speak now?“

John rolled his eyes. “For Heaven’s sake, yes. Don’t put me on the rack.“

“So this is what you want? Be in Venice with me?“

“Yes, Sherlock. But I want more.“

“What do you want?“ Sherlock’s voice had dropped to a whisper.

“You. In whatever way I can have you.“

“Including …?“

“Yes.“

And then there were no words anymore.

**Author's Note:**

> And in case you have not guessed the films or want to have a look at them - they are:
> 
> The Comfort of Strangers (1990)  
> Death in Venice (1971)  
> Don't Look Now (1973)  
> Summertime (1955)
> 
> Thank you for taking your time to read this little fic. And I would love to read your comments.


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